


Future's Bright But Baby, You're Brighter

by WhatIsAir



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky is a notorious food stealer, Bucky steals sam's coffee, Bucky watches Steve's six, Emotional Constipation, Fluff, M/M, Protective Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson is a Saint, Sam and Bucky tete-a-tete, Sam is Not Amused, and i don't mean his ass, they don't talk about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 15:55:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6572467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatIsAir/pseuds/WhatIsAir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Soldier drains approximately half of Sam’s double-whipped cream mocha frappuccino. Sam says, “You know, he’d worry a lot less if he could see how you’re doing, James – can I call you James?”</p><p>It’s just a small tilt of James’ head, but it feels like a victory nonetheless. Sam sighs and heads over to the counter to order himself a new coffee and cheesecake.</p><p>Honestly, the things he does for Steve’s undead friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Future's Bright But Baby, You're Brighter

The Soldier hears the cry, and at first he ignores it.

(After all, no one came when _he_ screamed, when electric volts were sent racing through his body and his whole world dissolved in fire and screaming was the only reprieve. Pierce had only smiled through his teeth, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and said, “Pain is just a process.”)

Then it comes again, a cry of anguish and plea for help, and the Soldier’s feet move of their own accord, taking him down the block to the mouth of an alley.

“You’re pathetic, you know that?” a kid (he can’t be older than sixteen) is sneering, as he aims a kick at the rib cage of someone smaller, thinner, hunched up and curled in on himself on the grimy alley floor.

The kid on the floor groans, raises his arms up and braces for the next blow.

It never lands.

The Soldier blinks, and he’s standing behind the bully, left hand fisted warningly in the collar of his shirt. “You wanna pick on someone your own size, kid?”

The kid turns, biting retort on his tongue. His face pales when he catches sight of the Soldier’s face, and he hurriedly stammers, “No, sir.”

The machinery in the Soldier’s arm clicks, whirs, as he debates the relative merits of snapping the bully’s neck and leaving his body in pieces for the local authorities to find.

There’s a pained moan from the kid on the ground, and the Soldier’s grip loosens.

“Go,” he grits out. He doesn’t have to say it twice; the bully’s gone, sprinted out of the alley before the word’s out of his mouth.

The Soldier turns round to find the kid on the floor watching him warily, noting the way he pushes his back into the corner of the wall: trying to make himself a smaller target.

“You got a home? Parents?” the Soldier asks, when the staring has gone on for long enough that even he’s starting to feel uncomfortable.

The kid nods, shyly, hesitantly, and holds out a hand, which the Soldier takes with his right (taking care not to crush the bones in his small wrist).

The Soldier walks the kid home. He finds himself attacked by a hug on the doorstep and leaves feeling happier than he can remember feeling in a long, _long_ time (seventy years).

-

_“But I had –”_

_“Had him on the ropes,” Bucky interrupts, rolling his eyes as he hoists Steve’s arm more securely over his shoulder, “Yeah, I know. Be more effective if you’d say it when you’re_ not _beaten black and blue, pal.”_

_Steve mumbles something rude under his breath, and yanks hard, pulling away from Bucky._

_“I can walk fine on my own, thanks,” he mutters, and does so for all of three steps before he staggers and ends up face-down on the sidewalk._

_Bucky snickers, but heads over to where Steve’s sat on his backside looking pained and glum. He gamely stretches out an upturned palm. “May I, Steven?” he asks solemnly, laughing when Steve pushes him away, over-balances and almost kisses the ground again._

_In the end Steve acquiesces, with a grumble, takes Bucky’s hand and lets himself be helped up._

_They make their way back to the apartment, one of Bucky’s arms hooked around Steve’s waist, one of Steve’s hooked over the back of Bucky’s neck, a warm brand that, hard as Bucky tries to, he can’t ignore and can’t forget._

-

Sam pauses with his coffee midway between the table and his mouth, the raised hairs on the back of his neck alerting him to someone’s presence (possibly hostile) behind him.

He turns, and is infinitely glad he hadn’t taken a sip of his drink because he sure as hell would’ve sprayed it straight into the Winter Soldier’s face.

As it is, he coughs, hurriedly lowers the cup and watches as the Soldier slides into the seat opposite him (taking care to keep his back to the wall and his eyes on the coffee shop’s exit, of course).

The Soldier looks slightly better than the last he’d seen him; he’s quieter, the fire in his eyes dimmed. He’s not exactly unshaven, but there’s enough stubble on his face that he would at first glance be unrecognizable as the man who’d single-handedly put SHIELD’s last helicarrier into the waters of the Potomac. He’s dressed as a civilian, in hoodie, jeans, and a baseball cap pulled almost suspiciously low over his eyes.

For the span of a minute or so, the Soldier doesn’t say anything. Sam fidgets, wondering if he should start the conversation. He’s read enough of Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes’ file (the one so painstakingly procured by Natasha) to know that the man in front of him is definitely _not_ the same man who kicked him off the helicarrier and sent him plummeting a hundred feet before his jetpack kicked in once more (not that Sam’s holding any grudges).

“How is he,” the Soldier finally says, voice raspy with disuse, steel blue eyes boring into Sam’s, and Sam doesn’t for a minute doubt who it is he’s asking after.

Sam thinks about lying, because surely a pissed-off ex-brainwashed assassin is more dangerous than an ex-brainwashed assassin being kept in the dark.

Then he thinks about the possible ramifications that lying to what used to be the face and fist of HYDRA would incur, and says, “Not good, man. He’s been better.”

The Soldier’s fist (his _right_ , Sam notes with interest) clenches on the tabletop. “Why,” he says. It’s not even a question.

Sam raises his eyebrows in disbelief (is this guy for real?). “Steve’s going through a rough patch right now,” he says, wondering how much the Soldier knows (remembers), “And he’s worried about you.”

The Soldier doesn’t say anything. Instead he reaches out, snags Sam’s coffee and takes a sip. Sam’s bristling with indignity, but he figures hey, the dude’s been on HYDRA’s leash for seven decades; he deserves a coffee break.

When the Soldier’s drained approximately half of Sam’s double-whipped cream mocha frappuccino, Sam says, “You know, he’d worry a lot less if he could see how you’re doing, James – can I call you James?”

It’s just a small tilt of James’ head, but it feels like a victory nonetheless.

“Here.” Sam pushes his cheesecake across the table when he spots James side-eyeing it. James glances at him suspiciously, then glares at the cake like it’s offended him on a personal level. Sam rolls his eyes. “It’s store-bought. Nothing in it, I promise.”

After which James picks up the plastic fork and fairly inhales the cake. Huh. So apparently Sgt. Barnes has a sweet tooth (see, that’s the stuff they don’t teach you in history textbooks).

“So, what about it?” Sam asks, when all that remains of the cheesecake are a few stray crumbs, and Sam’s frappuccino’s been reduced to nothing but a few lone ice cubes rattling around the bottom of the cup, “You’d actually be doing me a favour. Steve’d be a lot less of a pain in my ass if he was sure you were doing okay.”

James snorts, possibly the most human reaction Sam’s managed to elicit from him so far, and rolls his eyes. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna make Stevie any less a pain in your ass, Wilson,” he drawls, Sergeant Barnes and Brooklyn seeping into his voice, and Sam wants to fist-pump the air.

Then James’ face shutters, and the light in his eyes dim. “Not now,” he mutters, and then he’s pushing his chair back and hurrying away.

Sam sighs and heads over to the counter to order himself a new coffee and cheesecake.

Honestly, the things he does for Steve’s undead friends.

-

“You saw _what_?” Steve yelps, and Sam barely has time to brace himself before there’s over 200 pounds of supersoldier barrelling into him, demanding details.

“Jesus, Steve, let me breathe,” Sam gasps, “Some of us have bones that could _break_ , you know.”

Steve lets up, stepping out of Sam’s personal space. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “But you said you saw Buck and I just –”

“Overreacted,” Sam finishes for him, ignoring Steve’s indignant squawk. “No, you did. Because that’s all you do where he’s concerned: you overreact.”

“Alright, fine,” Steve says mulishly. “But you gotta tell me everything. Is he doing okay? Is he eating properly? Is he getting enough sleep? Does he have a place to stay? Does he need a place to stay, because I can always –”

“Christ, Steve,” Sam groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. He drops his bag on the floor and collapses onto the sofa. “I saw him for all of ten minutes, and I was too busy _fearing for my life_ to take note of his general wellbeing, okay?”

Steve perches on the seat next to him, fidgets. He gets up and starts pacing. Up and down, up and down the length of Sam’s living room like a caged lion.

“Sit your ass down, Steve,” Sam says, because he’s starting to get dizzy from following Steve’s frenetic pacing. Steve sits his ass down, then looks at Sam pleadingly, and Sam caves because he’s pretty sure no one in the goddamn US of A’s managed to refuse him when he pulls that wounded puppy look. “He looked fine, he sounded fine, and I’m damn sure he’s eating properly because the dude stole my cake.”

Steve lets out an audible breath, clearly relieved. Sam closes his eyes and has approximately three seconds of reprieve before Steve ruins it by saying, “Did you ask him to come over? Does he know where I live? Does he know he’s welcome anytime? Does he remember…”

Sam buries his head in his hands. It’s going to be a long night.

-

They’re in Atlanta, where SHIELD’s called them up to take care of an alien, flying sea-monster threat. The beasts (because of _course_ there had to be more than one alien sea-monster) were let in through an opened portal and it’s up to them to clean up the mess and send the monsters packing before any more civilian casualties are sustained.

“ _Captain!_ ” Clint yells through the earpiece, making all of them wince.

Sam kicks a beast in the head and glances over; Steve’s busy helping schoolchildren off a bus and shepherding them to safety, which means his back’s turned and as he’s helping the last toddler off across the rubble-strewn road, he turns to find himself surrounded by at least five of the beasts, circling him in a relentless swarm.

One of Clint’s arrows catches Sam’s beast in the eye and it plummets. “Thanks, man,” Sam says, before swooping towards the overturned school bus and Steve, barely visibly as a red-white-blue blur as he throws his shield, sending them ricocheting around each of the monster’s underbellies in turn.

It’s not enough; one of the monster’s spiked tail lashes out, catching Steve on the cheek and sending him sprawling. Sam turns his propellers on at full-thrust as a second beast flicks its barbed fin at the back of Steve’s neck and he goes down again; it doesn’t look like Sam’s going to make it in time.

“Cap’s down, I repeat, Cap’s _down_ ,” Sam says urgently, scanning the rest of the field to see if any of the others are close enough to help.

There’s the distant sound of gunfire, and the hovering beasts start dropping like flies. By the time Sam’s close enough to the action, all the monsters are dead or dying, lying sprawled in an almost-perfect semicircle around Steve, who’s wincing as he gets to his feet.

“Thanks, Sam,” Steve says, grimacing even as he gives him the thumbs-up. He picks his shield up once more.

“Don’t thank me,” Sam says, swooping down to land beside Steve. “You think I got that kinda ammo on me?”

Steve frowns, wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “If it wasn’t you, then who –”

Another beast swoops in, and it would’ve barrelled straight into the two of them if it wasn’t taken out by another shot. Sam and Steve both watch as the monster falls from the sky to land, crumpled, at their feet.

They glance up at the nearest high-rise simultaneously. Sam can just make out the glint of a sniper’s scope and what looks like a metal hand raised in a salute.

“ _Buck,_ ” Steve breathes, like the he’s seen the face of God. He turns to Sam with a thousand-watt, poster-boy of America smile (the first real one Sam’s seen in months). “He _saved_ me.”

There’s the sharp _thwick_ of an arrow, and yet another beast plummets from the sky to land at Steve’s feet.

“Yeah, well,” Clint’s voice crackles over the receiver, “So did I. Don’t see you getting all mushy on me, do I.”

“That’s _different_ ,” Steve says, but this time when he picks up his shield and starts fighting, there’s a new light to his eyes, a new strength to the way he moves.

And even if Steve spends the whole plane-ride back to D.C. talking about nothing but Bucky (“Bucky took art class with me in school even though he hated it.” “Bucky used to make me chicken broth when I got sick.” “Buck would skip school and stay home with me when I was too ill to go.”) Sam can deal, because there’s always been a sadness, a world-weariness, in the way Steve carries himself. It’s been there ever since Sam met him, and to see it gone, replaced with something brighter, _freer_ , is so rare that Sam is loath to see it gone.

-

The next time James corners him, Sam’s ready.

He’s having brunch (most important meal of the day, in his opinion) in the diner whose owner he’s friends with, when James slides into the booth across from him.

Sam wordlessly pushes over his pancakes and bacon, and signals to the waiter that he’d like _another, please_. He slides his coffee across the table, too, and watches as James attacks the food but spends approximately four minutes squinting at the coffee with suspicion.

“Sugar?” Sam says, proffering a packet to James. He stifles a grin when James tears it open, dumps its entire contents into the coffee, then proceeds to add two more packets before he deigns to take a sip from it.

“Thank you,” James says haltingly, gaze darting up to meet Sam’s before skittering away and then he’s hunching in on himself, face turned like he’s expecting a blow and Sam feels his fist clench under the table. He wants to fuck HYDRA _up_ for teaching the Soldier he’s not allowed to have things, or be _grateful_ for things. 

“Hey, James,” he says softly. “You’re welcome, man. Anytime you want pancakes, seriously. I’m your man. Mi money es su money, mi food es su food. Don’t worry bout it buddy, I got you covered.”

James takes a rather large gulp of his coffee-tainted sugar. “Thank you,” he says again, sounding awed. Like he can’t believe he’s allowed the luxury of _having_ and _liking_ things.

The waitress comes over with the pancakes (maple syrup-drenched, this time) and sets it down in front of Sam. “Here,” he says, and slides it across the table to James, who looks up at him with a tremble in his lower lip like he’s going to cry.

“It’s alright to want more, James,” Sam says, panicking because he doesn’t want the tears of a ninety-five year old brainwashed-and-tortured assassin on his conscience. “You can have anything you want, _do_ anything you want. They’re gone, now. Steve took down the rest of them.”

He doesn’t say _HYDRA_ because he’s read the file and he has no intention of accidentally triggering the Soldier, lying dormant in James’ consciousness.

James helps himself to a syrupy pancake, downs the rest of his sickly sweet coffee. “I want,” he says softly, the first words he’s spoken in more than ten minutes, “I want Steve.”

Sam smiles, unsure how they’ve managed to reach this point but glad that they have. “Alright, buddy, I’ll take you to him.”

James stands like he intends to go right now, and Sam raises an eyebrow and says, “Finish your pancakes. I paid good money for those pancakes,” so James slides back into the booth and quietly finishes his pancakes.

-

“Sam, have you seen my sketchboo –” Steve says, striding into the living room, his jaw going slack when he sees who Sam’s just brought home with him.

James turns, Steve’s sketchbook falling from his hand ( _nothing_ but sketches of him: him lounging on the sofa with a cigarette between his lips; him ashen and pale, stretched out and strapped to Zola’s operating table; him expressionless and muzzled, metal arm gleaming in the sun; him _him him him him_ ).

“Steve,” James says, stretching out a hand to shake and stiffening in surprise when he finds his arms full of Steve, all 240 pounds of him, enveloping him in a crushing embrace that’s warm and safe and feels like _home_.

“ _Buck_ ,” Steve breathes into his hair, lips trembling where they graze the shell of James’ ear.

“I’ve –” James takes a deep breath, wondering when words became so difficult, when _sentences_ became so hard to form. “I’ve missed. You.”

“So’ve I,” Steve murmurs, pulling back far enough to see him, but still close enough that their arms are brushing, their sides of their knees knocking together.

“’M sorry I didn’t call,” James mumbles, “Cell reception in HYDRA’s basement was crappy.”

Steve’s brows furrow in concern, and James notes the worried glance he shoots Sam over the top of James’ head.

“’S a joke,” James says, elbowing Steve gently in the ribs. “Just a joke, punk. Stop gettin’ worked up.”

“Bad joke,” Steve says, although the lines of his mouth soften a little and he looks less like he’s going to have a panic attack. “But seriously, Buck, you couldn’t’a left me a note, a message? It woulda been nice to know you how you were doin’, is all.”

James’ eyebrows shoot up. “I _did_ ,” he says, jabbing a finger in Sam’s direction, “Told Wilson everything, didn’t I? Didn’t he tell you about our coffee dates?”

Steve whips his head round to glare at Sam, who raises his hands. “Hey, look, I told you everything. It’s not my fault you were too busy asking after his dietary habits to listen to me.”

Steve hangs his head, ashamed, dull flush gracing his cheeks, and it takes James longer than a moment to pinpoint _why_ exactly he finds the gesture endearing.

“Hey, Stevie,” he says softly, carding a gentle hand (his right, _always_ his right) through Steve’s hair. “You know what’s _not_ a joke?”

“What?” Steve says, glancing almost warily at him, like he expects James to go full-Soldier on him or something. (James keeps his left hand locked firmly by his side; he’s not going to risk Steve, he’s _not_.)

“This,” James murmurs, and shifts until their chests touch. “You,” he says against Steve’s lips, and swallows Steve’s muffled response as his tongue swipes Steve’s upper lip and the world tilts suddenly on its axis (he thinks of the speeding train in ’43, the icy ravine beneath; he thinks of the tilting helicarrier a few months ago, and the Potomac beneath) before righting itself and as Bucky licks his way into Steve’s mouth he breathes, easier than he has these four months, without the weight on his chest and the ache in his heart, he _breathes_.

The dull click of a camera’s shutters has them breaking apart.

“That’ll be for the team,” Sam smirks, typing out a quick message on his phone at lightning speed and hitting ‘send’ before either Steve or Bucky can snatch the phone from him.

“Yeah?” Bucky says, and snags a throw-pillow from the sofa. “Well, this’ll be for your head.”

Sam ducks and the pillow sails harmlessly over his head as he escapes into the kitchen, laughing. There’s a clatter, and a minute later an orange is flung out of the open doorway; which Bucky catches before it hits Steve in the chest.

“Oh, Wilson, it’s _on,_ ” Bucky mutters, “Steve, c’mon. Sucker’s goin’ down.” He reaches out to grab Steve, haul him along to the kitchen, but Steve digs his feet in.

“ _What_?” Bucky says impatiently, looking back, “We’ve got your honour to defend, Stevie.”

Steve’s looking at down at his wrist, and Bucky’s hand (his right) wrapped around it. Slowly, gently, Steve eases out of Bucky’s grasp and reaches to take Bucky’s left hand in his.

Bucky recoils, then forces himself to stay still, for his hand to remain limp in Steve’s grasp even as his mind fills with a litany of _you are the fist of HYDRA you will shape the world you will destroy –_

“Buck,” Steve murmurs, “Breathe with me,” and it’s only after Bucky takes in deep, staggering breath and oxygen fills his lungs once more that he realizes he’d stopped breathing.

Steve tugs him so his front’s pressed against Steve’s. He presses a kiss into Bucky’s hair, squeezes Bucky’s left hand.

“It’s – I can’t feel it,” Bucky says woodenly. “I can only – there’s pressure. But it’s not –”

“Buck,” Steve pulls back to say, eyes blue as the summer sky in 1930s Brooklyn, “When I said I missed you, I meant _all_ of you.”

And Bucky lets his shoulders sag, flexes his left hand and twines his (they’re his, now, not HYDRA’s) fingers twine with Steve’s, as Steve covers Bucky’s lips with his own and they breathe together.

-

Sam surveys his bedroom in dismay. It looks not unlike what it would look if a freak hurricane hit it.

“Uh, guys,” he calls, not sure whether he’s more angry or amused that they’ve managed to break his bed, smash his bedside lamp _and_ crack the wall. There’s a suspicious dent in the shape of a hand at the top of his bedframe, like someone had clutched it for balance while someone _else_ had rather enthusiastically _fu_ –

“What’s up,” Steve says, sticking his head out from Sam’s en suite. Inside, Sam can hear the shower running. His eyes widen when he catches sight of the damage in Sam’s room.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Captain America says, flushing a patriotic red from his face down to his chest, then, not long after that – “Sorry.”

Sam’s not entirely sure whether he’s apologizing for the state of his bedroom or the swear word.

“Stevie, get your ass back in here!” Sam hears Bucky call from the shower. “Tell Sam we’ll buy him a new bed, I don’t care, if you don’t come back I’ll finish myself off!”

Steve’s face cycles through varying shades of pink, red, and _bright_ red as he glances at Sam, then back at Bucky. Judging from the way Steve flushes even harder, Bucky’s doing something extremely inappropriate in the shower to get Steve back in it.

“Sorry, Sam, lemme just –”

Sam grins at thought of how long he can use this against Steve. “You can make it up to me some other time. Go have fun.”

Steve’s shut the door and gone back to the shower before Sam’s finished speaking. Sam takes out his phone and snaps a surreptitious picture of the damage his bedroom’s sustained.

He sends it to the Avengers’ group chat (yes, they have a group chat) with the caption: _When you get Steve Roger-ed first thing in the morning._

Then he heads back out to his living room, puts his headphones on and tries not to think about the possibility of having to get a new showerhead and tub if they break that, too.

**Author's Note:**

> thank for readingg hope y'all liked it(: drop me a comment if ya did 
> 
> comments are to me what Bucky is to Steve (not that i'd burn down the government for comments. but close enough)
> 
> guys guys guys it's T-minus 2 weeks till ca:cw i'M hyPerVenTilAtinG
> 
> i'm terrified like what if nothing happens what if everything happens what if my bbys get hurt shiT what do i do


End file.
